


Handedness

by StairwellWit



Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: Drabble, M/M, Male Solo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-31
Updated: 2019-05-31
Packaged: 2020-04-05 04:51:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19041481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StairwellWit/pseuds/StairwellWit
Summary: Crozier had once seen a man's tooth burst. Heard the resounding concussion and watched him cough out the enamel shrapnel. Sputtering, weeping in relief. He wishes to eradicate Fitzjames from his mind in much the same manner.





	Handedness

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little sad jerking off lmao  
> Enjoy!  
> Much love  
> -s

Crozier had once seen a man's tooth burst. Heard the resounding concussion and watched him cough out the enamel shrapnel. Sputtering, weeping in relief. This was after three days of screams. Three miserable sleepless days of hauling reindeer and listening to a man's crying. Nothing is so taxing as a grown man weeping.  
Until a gunshot pop and the pressure released, all the built up pain giving way to relief.  
He wishes to eradicate Fitzjames from his mind in much the same manner, save the shrieking and reindeer. (Though if carrying reindeer was the trade to get off of this hell scape he would haul a hundred himself.)  
His non-dominant left hand moves clumsily on his cock. Jerky and uncoordinated, as to trick him into believing it is Fitzjames. A quick, eager, unpracticed, backward dragging. A tad too fast, a bit too dry; arm shaking. Fitzjames with his thin lips and pursed lemon expressions. He could never be lowered to touch his mouth to another man's cock. His lax curls, still dark, the color of African oak and Crozier would believe his ego keeps grey from setting in by sheer willpower alone; the vapid little minx. Francis would like to see all of his propriety and misplaced authority tossed aside. Stripped of anything but primal adrenaline, all baser.  
Crozier wonders if James has ever let someone touch him. Someone who knows truly what they are doing.  
A lady of the night, a swish, some part of his mind supplies Miss Cracroft and her willing body but he will not allow that thought to take wind, to breathe life into that fire. These two owners of his fantasies will not touch each other.  
Miss Cracroft has no business here on this ship just as Fitzjames has no place in that late afternoon pool so far away in New Zealand before Antarctica.  
Crozier jerks in his own grip, the pressure is building behind his eyelids and the base of his spine. He wishes James had a place here with him now, in the freezing of his bunk. These shuffled away moments that were made so blatantly lonely by the way he had to tunnel under the furs and blankets on his bed. So solitarily cocooned.  
What he wouldn't give for someone warm, someone alive - truly alive in the way Crozier hadn't been for years, since he was a child.  
Fitzjames still wants to prove something to the world, he wants to become something more than what he is. Crozier imagines he dreams in golden hues and Roman courtyards.  
Francis Rawdon Moira Crozier dreams of tumbling down a mountain of empty bottles. The knell that of glass, of the china plates and cut crystal cups. On the rare occasion he does dream in stories, it is always of the future, and it is never positive, though it is always telling.  
Crozier had not needed these dreams to know always that his life would come down to this. Even before Miss Cracroft and the Terror. From the first drink of whiskey he'd taken at the age of 11, he knew his life would crescendo to an empty auditorium, then fall into a forgettable demise at the boot heels of the Arctic Counsel and the Admiralty.  
Crozier's life has become a count down by bottles. He subtracts a bottle - a day - and both dreads and rejoices the day the count runs out. His pistol stays loaded and waiting for it.  
There is nothing left here for them in this frozen hell. Nothing but starvation and death.  
His right hand is going numb, whether from the cold or the weight of his body pressing down on it awkwardly to keep it away from himself he is not sure. Crozier bites his cheek enough to bleed. His spine aches and his left wrist is locking up. His movements are becoming erratic and his own breath huffing and trapped in the tunnel of his bunk puffs back into his face. Moisture clings and he tries to imagine the franticness of Fitzjames. All of his eagerness to please, to take bullets and tell the tales. All solid jaw and proud shoulders that could settle so exquisitely along side Francis in the cubby of the captain's bunk. Crozier's hand spasms, squeezes too tight, he bites into his cheek again and his world tips, everything shotgun pops behind his eye lids and through to his toes. He has to hold back a yelp for fear of Jopson bunked not far outside of his quarters, and then sags.  
Post orgasmic, but no more relieved, Crozier looks at the mess in his hand and wonders what it is that makes the world choose who will be alone.


End file.
